Punch (20.1851)

76

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

SMITHFI ELD AS IT IS TO BE, A PASTORAL.

0, Sinithfield is transform'd by Bunning's plan,
Bartholomew beholds the rites of Pan,
And Eancy, robed in Aldermanic gown,
Creates a Tempe in the heart of Town.

Sink, wretched streets^ down— dirty crowded lanes,
Rise, model dwellings for contented swains;
Hence, miry pens and lairs, unsightly holds,
And yield a site to clean and decent folds !

See how yon sparkling fountain brightly flows,
Where placid oxen at their ease repose,
And gentle flocks in mild enjoyment bleat,
Vex'd by no forethought of becoming meat.

The want of space no longer incommodes,
The shrinking flank the spike no longer goads ;
Fell fangs no more the living mutton tear,
And not a drover can be heard to swear.

Soon as the rosy-finger'd morn appears,
Blithe herdsmen thither drive the willing steers ;
Garlands and wreaths the brawny neck adorn,
And azure ribbons deck the mighty horn.

The swains with jocund pipes beguile the way,
As well with tuneful reed as genial clay,
Or foot it, should their ears a measure hit,
As lightly as their hobnail'd soles permit.

Thus playfully they urge along the road
The self-piled hog, impatient of his load,
Whilst frequent grunts relieve his labouring breast,
Till his fat sides on softest litter rest.

The market o'er, brisk youths in blue array
With gentle force the victims drive away,
Whilst cleavers ring, and marrow-bones resound,
As they, in graceful movements, beat the ground.

The rustic swains, their labours at an end,
In yonder baths their wearied limbs extend,
And then retire, a copious meal to share,
With palates sharpen'd by the fragrant air.